"I think Sir Henry was the young gentleman in the frock suit of sky-blue and silver, ma'am—a nice young gentleman, ma'am—and there was another gentleman, my lady, with him; he had a plum-coloured suit with gold lace; he spoke very loud, and cursed a great deal; a large gentleman, my lady, with a very red face, and one of his teeth out. I seen him once in the tap-room. I remembered him the minute I set eyes on him, but I can't think of his name. He came in, my lady, with that young lord—I forget his name, too—that was ruined with play and dicing, my lady; and they had a quart of mulled sack—it was I that brought it to them—and I remembered the red-faced gentleman very well, for he was turning round over his shoulder, and putting out his tongue, making fun of the young lord—because he was tipsy—and winking to his own friends."
"What did my brother—Sir Henry—your master—what did he say to you just now?" inquired Mary, faintly, and scarcely conscious what she said.
"He gave me a bit of a note to your ladyship," said the girl, fumbling in the profundity of her pocket for it, "just as soon as he put the other girl—her that's gone, my lady—into the chaise—here it is, ma'am, if you please."
Mary took the letter, opened it hurriedly, and with eyes unsteady with agitation, read as follows:—
"My dear Mary,—I am compelled to fly as fast as horseflesh can carry me, to escape arrest and the entire loss of whatever little chance remains of averting ruin. I don't see you before leaving this—my doing so were alike painful to us both—perhaps I shall be here again by the end of a month—at all events, you shall hear of me some time before I arrive. I have had to discharge Carey for very ill-conduct I have not time to write fully now. I have hired in her stead the bearer, Flora Guy, a very respectable, good girl. I shall have made at least two miles away in my flight before you read this. Perhaps you had better keep within your own room, for Mr. Blarden will shortly be here to look after matters in my absence. I have hardly a moment to scratch this line.
"Always your attached brother,
"Henry Ashwoode."
Her eye had hardly glanced through this production when she ran wildly toward the door; but, checking herself before she reached it, she turned to the girl, and with an earnestness of agony which thrilled to her very heart, she cried,—
"Is he gone? tell me, as you hope for mercy, is he—is he gone?"
"Who, who is it, my lady?" inquired the girl, a good deal startled.